


Sleeptalking

by Raichel



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley hasn't really worked through his feelings from The Fire, Established Relationship, M/M, Mild Angst, Post-Canon, but really just in the service of fluff, i guess?, post-apocolypse, so like the lowest possible stakes hurt/comfort fic, when you sleep a lot you're bound to have nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2020-05-18 13:34:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19335553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raichel/pseuds/Raichel
Summary: A burning bookshop is not easily forgotten. Especially when your best friend went down with it.





	Sleeptalking

The flames licked at his heels. Not that it mattered, fire couldn’t do too much to the old demon. The smell of smoke, burning paper, old leather consumed him with the heat. 

“Aziraphale?!” Crowley called, spinning in place, helpless, “Aziraphale!” he yelled again. He didn’t need to breathe, but he couldn’t, and that was uncomfortable to say the least. The heat, the suffocating smoke, the burning metal and plastic of his sunglasses, none of these awful feelings held a candle to the terrible emptiness in his gut, the missing piece of the universe, the angel, Aziraphale. The fire filled his vision; there was no bookshop, only flames. He couldn’t move. He could only stand there in the fire, lost, alone, and suffocating. The world spun around him, chaotic and terribly, terribly empty.

“Aziraphale!” he called again, “Aziraphale!” 

His eyes snapped open to total darkness. Utter, suffocating darkness. In the delirium of half-sleep he started to move, and found himself tangled in sheets, choking and blinding him. Damn his dark aesthetic, for a moment he thought he might’ve died. Adrenaline coursed through his body, making it woefully inefficient, and he struggled to untangle the sheets without really being able to see them. It didn’t help that half the things he pulled on tightened the sheets’ grip around his neck, yanking him around.

“Good lord, Crowley,” the demon flinched at the voice; he’d thought he was alone. A hand removed the sheet from his face, and there was Aziraphale. The delirium of sleep faded; Aziraphale had been here with him all along. All of a sudden the awful emptiness was filled, and Crowley grabbed the angel, pulling him close. Aziraphale only barely managed to avoid falling over. “What’s wrong, dear?” he asked, running a hand through the demon’s hair, “You were talking in your sleep. I couldn’t quite hear from the other room-“

“Please don’t leave me, Angel,” Crowley muttered with his head practically buried in Aziraphale’s vest. The angel’s smell was so much more pleasant that the imaged smoke, his body heat far better than the burning flames.

“I'm sorry?” Aziraphale asked.

“Nothing,” Crowley said, letting Aziraphale go and finishing untangling himself from the sheets. He tried to blink away a few tears that had insisted on coming to his eyes. Demons don’t just cry like that, dammit. 

“Are you sure?” Aziraphale asked, as Crowley got to his feet.

“S’fine,” Crowley insisted, stretching. “What time is it?”

“Oh, about 9:30. I’ve been up for a few hours. You know I don’t sleep so much as you do. I was admiring your plants, giving them compliments.”

“Oh no,” Crowley groaned, “don’t do that! They’ll go soft!”

“But really dear, what were you mumbling about?”

“Don’t forget, one faded spot and you’re out!” Crowley barked at his plants as he sauntered through the room, Aziraphale trailing behind him. “Don’t test me,” he added, tossing them a threatening gesture as he stepped over to his desk. He puttered around the room, looking for anything to do but respond to Aziraphale’s question. His hands were desperately searching for something to do to relieve his nervous energy. He’d become very bad at lying to his angel, especially now that he couldn’t justify it with his “responsibility” (the word was used very loosely) to hell.

“Crowley?”

“It was just a nightmare,” he muttered, “nothing to worry about.”

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale said, stepping closer to Crowley, “quite a bad one, I assume,” he noted, and Crowley broke eye contact after barely a moment. His head swirled with guilt, the memory of pain, and an uncomfortable dash of bleariness. He couldn’t take this.

“I lost you, Angel,” he muttered, dragging a hand over his face and looking blankly at the wall. He half hoped Aziraphale wouldn’t hear, but he knew that was a long shot.

“It’s alright,” Aziraphale assured him, taking one of his hands. Shit, the angel’s touch still made him buzz with affection and astonishment. “I’m here,” he assured him.

“I know,” Crowley said, turning his eyes to the ground (still couldn’t look at Aziraphale). “but you weren’t, for a moment there.” for a split second Crowley made eye contact, and quickly looked away again. He couldn’t take that look of concern. Not in large doses, at any rate. “When your bookshop burned, when you discorporated…” he didn’t know how to explain to Aziraphale something he’d missed entirely. And sure, they were more honest about their feelings lately, but it was still _hard_. You don’t bottle all these things up for millennia and just dump it all immediately. 

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale hummed, wrapping his arms around the demon, “I’m so sorry.”

“S’not your fault,” Crowley told him. The damn angel was squeezing the tears right out of him. 

“I’m not going anywhere,” Aziraphale said, managing, finally, to catch and keep Crowley’s gaze. He put a hand to the demon’s face, wiping away a tear. Eugh, Crowley despised crying, god (Satan?) forbid in front of people. In spite of himself, he asked,

“Promise?”

“I promise,” Aziraphale assured him, managing, with some maneuvering, to kiss Crowley on the forehead. Crowley crumpled, in the most controlled way he could manage, into the angel’s arms, his own arms wrapped around Aziraphale’s neck.

“I may need a bit more sleep,” he muttered, “waking up full of adrenaline isn’t exactly restful.”

“What if I make you a cup of tea, and you try and face the day instead?” Aziraphale offered. Crowley grunted a begrudging affirmative. He could put alcohol in tea.


End file.
